Melton replaced his receiver. O’Connor followed suit.
‘Well, I’ll be blowed,’ said Melton. ‘What do you make of that?’
‘Pretty conclusive, Guv’nor, I’d say. That describes Strudwick to a tee, the crafty bastard. Tilbury! He’s legging it to Tilbury, the nearest port. Where to from there, sir? Ostend? Zeebrugge?’
Melton didn’t think so. ‘No, that’s what he wants us to think, but for once he’s been far too clever for his own good. How did Blessington put it? ‘Black, goggle-eyes, nigh on big as saucers’? Why, do you suppose?’
‘I haven’t the remotest, Guv’nor.’
‘I’ll tell you why, Benjamin, my boy. Strudwick was wearing contact lenses as well as glasses. It would be difficult to see—he fumbled for money buying the ticket, remember, so I suspect he wore glasses purposely in order to be recognised, which suggests he bought a second ticket to a different destination, probably from another booking clerk, this time without his give-away goggles.
‘Where would he head to from Waterloo? Port, airport? Certainly, but not, repeat not, to Tilbury.’
Melton waited, eyeing his assistant. O’Connor fingered his whiskers absently. The more he considered, the more it made sense. What seemed astonishing supposition at first, swiftly transformed itself into a first-class piece of inspirational deduction.
‘I reckon you’ve hit the nail on the head, Guv’nor,’ he said. ‘Which leads to a rather crafty notion,’ Melton went on. He formed a steeple with his fingertips. ‘Let’s play him at his own game. Let’s let him think we’ve swallowed his red herring. What d’you say?’ O’Connor was quick to agree. ‘But how?’ He scratched his head.
‘Don’t look so puzzled,’ Melton said. ‘I’ll explain later. But first, I’d like you to do me a favour. Time is short and I need to get on with this statement. Get back to PC Melberg at Waterloo. Tell him we believe Strudwick bought a second ticket round about the same time—let’s say within about five minutes. We need to know where to. Ask Melberg to see if he can obtain a printout of all tickets sold between 0925 and 0935—not too vast a number, I dare say. Tell him to ring me personally should he encounter any difficulties. Impress on him that the matter is urgent and I’d like the printout faxed through with the minimum of delay.’
When, twenty minutes later, O’Connor returned bearing a sheaf of fax-paper, Melton was busily finalising the press statement.
Waterloo booking hall had proved reasonably busy, even on a Saturday. Four out of the seven ticket windows had been manned, from which 62 tickets—predominantly returns—were issued between 9.25 and 9.35.
‘I dare say you’ve twigged what we’re looking for,’ Melton remarked. ‘If Strudwick intends to skip, he’ll make for an airport: Heathrow, Blackheath, Gatwick or Southend—or, more likely, one of the channel ports with ferry services to the Continent: Southampton, Dover, Felixstowe, Ramsgate, Folkestone or Newhaven. Are you with me?’
‘Makes sense, Guv’nor,’ his assistant agreed. ‘That’s where I’d be heading if I were in his lousy shoes—France, Belgium or the Netherlands. He knows we’re after him, and there are precious few hiding-places anywhere in this country.’
‘My sentiments entirely, so let’s see what we can come up with.’ It helped considerably that the computer records were both comprehensive and self-explanatory. Every ticket sold was date-timed, with multiple sales to individual purchasers quantity bracketed.
Working together, Melton and his assistant swiftly reduced the list to nine destinations: Portsmouth(2), Seaford, Dover(2), Hounslow, Newhaven, Gatwick, Folkestone, Southend and Poole.
‘Hm,’ Melton murmured, thoughtfully. ‘Now which of these seem the least likely?’ Answering his own question, he crossed out Portsmouth, Felixstowe, Seaford and Poole. ‘Doubtful—too far away,’ he explained. ‘And scrub out Dover as well—Strudwick is travelling alone. If we rule out airports, and I think we can, that leaves Southend, Newhaven and Folkestone. Southend is out—no ferry services. Newhaven’s a bit less likely, but remains a possibility. That narrows things down a bit, doesn’t it?’
O’Connor nodded. ‘I follow your reasoning, but I can’t quite fathom where it’s leading.’
‘Tactics! We alert all three, publicise Tilbury, but keep Newhaven and Folkestone under wraps. And there’s more. Alfred said his son has current and deposit accounts at the Midland, which suggests an opportunity to set a trap. Whether it’ll work or not… well, that remains to be seen.’
O’Connor was puzzled. ‘Sorry, Guv’nor, I don’t see…’
‘We know from experience that Strudwick covers his tracks well and is both clever and resourceful. But, as things stand, he might suppose there’s nothing definite to connect him with the kidnap— or anything else, for that matter. He may even plan to return home after a week or two. Who knows? But not if he watches TV or reads tomorrow’s papers, he won’t. He’ll know we really are on to him. That being so, he won’t hang about waiting for the dust to settle, he’ll head for somewhere remote—a safe haven where he can start a new life. And for that, he’ll need money—lots of it. Think about it. He’s hardly likely to leg it permanently without realising or transferring his assets, now is he?’
O’Connor’s eyes widened. ‘Gotcha, Guv’nor.’
‘Yes,’ Melton said, ‘and I’ve an even tastier trick up my sleeve, but more about that later.’
Informed he was to be released conditionally, Henry Dyson expressed surprise—and some alarm.
‘’Ere!’ he exclaimed, loudly. ‘Wot if ’e comes lookin’ ter carve me up wiv ’is bloody great knife?’
‘Don’t worry,’ Melton reassured him, ‘we’ll be watching out for you. But in any case, there’s every reason to believe he’s miles away by now. But keep that to yourself, it’s confidential information.’
‘Wotcha mean? ’Ow the ’ell d’yer know?’ Dyson demanded.
‘All right, I’ll tell you—it’ll be in tomorrow’s papers, anyway. He travelled to Waterloo after you dropped him off, stopped overnight in London and bought a single ticket to Tilbury this morning. Chances are he’s making straight for the Continent, so you can go back to your cab and rest easy. The Sergeant will see to the formalities, Mr Dyson.’
Chapter Fifteen
A Promise Made…
While DI Melton and his team were setting up a manhunt, Robert Strudwick continued to put distance between himself and his pursuers—alert, wary, careful to avoid arousing suspicion.
Comfortably ensconced in a window seat, his luggage safe in the rack where he could keep an eye on it, he relaxed for a while, taking in something of the scenery as the train moved through the urban sprawl, heading for Beckenham and beyond.
Lulled by the rhythmic clatter of the wheels, he lapsed into thought. It was his first real opportunity to rationalise the who, what or how behind the first-ever failure of a well-conceived ‘Mission’ and the consequent enforced abandonment of a comfortable existence among his parents, home and friends. More important was the loss of his pride, his enviable position and hard-won, highly lucrative career.
At some stage, and at all costs, the status quo must be re-established, something he realised was next to impossible without the backing of his netherworld mentor, whose patronage he must therefore urgently seek to restore.
Pending that moment, outwitting the police and maintaining freedom must remain his overriding priority. Given his proven survival record, he confidently expected to achieve both.
Not that he didn’t recognise—and regret—an extraordinary succession of blunders. What had possessed him to run from the cellar in mindless panic? Why hadn’t he stopped to think? What if Stephen and Janice were to survive? Would fear keep them quiet—or would they talk? An idiotic question—too damn right they would! Furthermore, Pearce was the one person alive who knew enough to implicate him in the Pennington adventure. So why was the bastard still alive? Bloody hell! He cursed, angrily, under his breath. A couple of knife thrusts would have silence
d Stephen Pearce and his bloody tart permanently.
And what of Henry Dyson, the grovelling, snivelling little pervert who knew far, far too much? Having outlived his usefulness, he too ought rightfully to have been disposed of. Damn! Damn! And as for himself—forced to run like a common criminal; revenge abandoned. Hell’s teeth!
What had gone wrong—and why? It didn’t make sense. If he really had digressed, then how? He needed help. As Custodian of the Book he surely merited it. Why was Pentophiles so infuriatingly elusive? Clearly he had upset his mentor, but how? He’d been rude before with no lasting effect. Why? Why? He examined and re-examined the happenings of the past few days, but failed to find a satisfactory answer. But he would find out—eventually.
Strudwick was still supremely confident, but as the train progressed and the distance between home, office and familiar territory increased, so his confidence began to evaporate.
Nearing Orpington he became anxious, as if events were spiralling out of control. Intuition—some sort of sixth sense—sounded a warning in his mind. He wondered if his escape plan was as foolproof as he had thought?
Doubt engendered fear which constricted his throat, and he became increasingly edgy and uneasy. He ached to know what the police were up to. Were his parents conforming, or not?
His ‘spur-of-the-moment’ bravado at Waterloo had been needlessly dangerous, and the disposal of his mobile telephone, logical enough at the time, was also beginning to seem like a serious mistake. His unease intensified. Ought he to modify—or even abandon—the escape plan? He was unsure. If only Pentophiles would return to guide him. For all his self-reliance, his ability to scheme and evaluate would surely benefit and he would thereafter know exactly what he must do. That Pentophiles would relent, he didn’t doubt, probably quite soon. Re-empowered and protected, current difficulties resolved, he would return to Claygate in triumph to resume his rightful place.
Probing, questing, his thoughts lit on the informant who urged him to flight: Bobby Shafto! She said he had been followed for several days and was under surveillance even as she spoke. OK, she had warned him—but why so late in the evening? Why the hell hadn’t she alerted him earlier? Had she provoked him into running for no good reason? Thinking back, there was no sign of the police when he left The Beeches, nor was he followed—at least, so as far as he could tell … Hm!
He knew she resented his hold over her. Was the warning a hoax, motivated by a wish for revenge? If so, the bitch would definitely become the subject of a brand-new ‘Mission’ … His pulse quickened.
But a ‘Mission’ needed instructions from the Book … He cursed, softly. Abruptly, reality returned, accompanied by an uncomfortable sensation. Damn, he needed a piddle.
Attempting to relieve the pressure, he wriggled, and made matters worse. What now? he wondered: Leave my bags here and have them nicked? Solicit attention by taking them with me to the bog and risk losing my seat into the bargain, or sit it out and hope I don’t end up by pissing myself? Perversely, he was also becoming extremely thirsty and badly needed a drink. These two simple needs became, collectively, the catalyst for a modified course of action. By the time the train squealed to a halt at Maidstone, his mind was made up.
Hefting his bags effortlessly, Robert mingled casually with the throng of passengers, but he neither crossed the bridge for the Folkestone connection, nor did he make for the exit. Instead, he sidled unobtrusively into the nearest gent’s toilet, slipped into a vacant cubicle and securely bolted the door, allowing the platform to empty and free the ticket-collector for his duties elsewhere.
Five minutes later, a bespectacled, stooped figure emerged, shuffled down the platform, passed through the unmanned exit, down the stairs and into the street. Clear of the station, he straightened up, increased pace and headed for the nearest chemist, where he bought a pair of light-reactive designer sunglasses, a bottle of shampoo, a pair of scissors, two pairs of latex gloves and a bottle of brown hair dye.
Shortly afterwards, ‘George Kingsley’, of Pine Avenue, Orpington booked into The Bell, a dubious two-star, close to the High Street yet within five minutes’ walking distance of the station. Going directly to his room, ‘Mr Kingsley’ locked the door and set to work.
He half-filled the washbasin with hot water and washed the gel from his hair. After towelling, he parted, combed and snipped, collecting the cuttings on a sheet of newspaper. Pulling on the gloves, he proceeded to apply the dye. Having allowed the requisite fifteen minutes for maximum ‘take’ and after a further, final rinse, he dried, combed and snipped again until the image in the mirror reflected the changes he sought. He put on the sunglasses. Then, almost without thinking, he added the gloves and empty dye container to the clippings and wrapped the lot into an innocuous-looking parcel for disposal later.
Eyeing himself critically, he concluded that, whilst the differences were purely cosmetic, they were nonetheless effective. Encouraged, he shrugged on his mac, pocketed the parcel and used toilet tissue to wipe clean any surface he may inadvertently have touched, before flushing the tissue down the loo. After a final check and a precautionary wipe of the door handles, he vacated the room—leaving the key in the door—and strode the length of the corridor, down the stairs and into the lobby without encountering a soul. To a fugitive with a vested interest in anonymity, it seemed like an omen.
At reception, he rang the bell and waited. Nobody responded. He hesitated. Should he ring again? He glanced around. The place appeared deserted. Could he? … Should he? … Oh, what the hell! He picked up his bags and strode boldly out of the building, unchallenged.
Thus, ‘George Kingsley’ ceased to exist and ‘William S. Roberts’ (allegedly of Smith Crescent, East Camberley) was resurrected. He dumped an unwanted parcel into a handy bin, walked briskly down the High Street and booked a room for two nights at The Railway Hotel, a comfortable hostelry he had stayed at once before. Registering under an assumed name (of what use were hotel registers when proof of identity was not demanded?), together with his subtle change of appearance, made it less likely he would be recognised.
Leaving the less important of his bags in the wardrobe, he picked up the other, returned to the foyer and slipped quietly out of the building in search of coffee and sandwiches.
He returned an hour later, equally unobtrusively, and switched on the television in time for the one o’clock news:
‘Robert William Strudwick’, the broadcaster droned, ‘wanted for questioning in connection with the disappearance last week of Janice Ann Pearson and Stephen Pearce, both of Lower Green, Esher. Twenty-year-old Strudwick is five foot four, has straw-coloured hair and generally wears glasses. At about ten-forty p.m. yesterday, he eluded capture when driving a white Jaguar X434 RRP at high speed away from premises where Stephen and Janice were subsequently found to be incarcerated. Strudwick is thought to be armed, is unpredictable and dangerous and should not be approached. Anyone who spots the wanted man or his car should telephone the special incident room free on 08041 890890 immediately or notify the police at any police station as soon as possible.’
Robert sneered. Was that really the best they could do? A description sufficiently vague to fit thousands and not so much as a snapshot. Did they really expect to catch him? Contemptuously, he switched the television off, napped for a while and enjoyed a leisurely bath.
He dined well, slept well and breakfasted well: he felt safe and secure within his new persona. But, on unfolding a copy of The Sunday People, his sense of security abruptly evaporated. Front page banner headlines. Bold, central inset of an uncannily-accurate photofit—Jesus Christ! Striving for calm, stony-faced but with thundering heart, he read the article:
SERIAL MURDERER SOUGHT
A report by our special correspondent
The Body in the Garden—The Body in the Vault
Early yesterday, police named Robert William Strudwick as the chief suspect behind the abduction eight days ago of missing sweethearts Janice Ann Pearson and Stephen Pe
arce.
As part of a major police operation, Janice and Stephen were rescued late on Friday, having been incarcerated in a cellar, cruelly bound, for more than a week without food or water. Both were in poor physical condition and are currently in intensive care at Kingston General Hospital.
Detective Inspector David Melton, the officer in charge of the case, revealed that Strudwick is also wanted for questioning in connection with two murders: the Body in the Garden in July 2002, and the Body in the Vault, the gruesome killing perpetrated towards the end of November last year.
A top employee of a well-known Surrey estate agent, Strudwick, aged twenty, was observed leaving the house where Janice and Stephen were found, and is known to have visited his Claygate home where he concealed his car prior to fleeing the area by taxicab.
It has since been established that Strudwick was driven first to Surbiton and thence to Raines Park, from where he travelled by underground to London, probably using a circuitous route.
A middle-aged man (who cannot be named for legal reasons) was detained early yesterday for questioning, but later released conditionally pending the outcome of further investigations.
At nine-thirty yesterday, a man answering Strudwick’s description was spotted at Waterloo by an alert railway employee, who later confirmed that the suspect purchased a single ticket for Tilbury.
The fugitive, who is believed armed and considered dangerous, may be heading for the continent. Police, customs and port authorities have been warned to be on the lookout for him.
Stocky, well-built, Strudwick is about five feet four, variously wears distinctive pebble-lens glasses or contact lenses and has slicked-back, straw-coloured hair—which he might possibly dye.
The suspect should not be approached. Anyone who believes they have seen Strudwick should notify the police immediately. All such reports will be held in complete confidence.
Taxicab! Surbiton! Raines Park! He had little doubt where that particular information had come from. Dyson! The bastard, the snivelling, grovelling little shit. I ought to have slit his bloody throat! Concealed behind the newspaper, face suffused with rage, Robert remained in his chair, rereading, digesting and analysing the import of the article.
The Flyleaf Killer Page 30